


Self-Inflicted

by Angsty_McGoth (Doctor_Cyance)



Category: Trigun
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-28
Updated: 2004-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 16:09:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1556285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Cyance/pseuds/Angsty_McGoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was originally written for the yaoi_challenge comm on LJ. It was my first ever published fanfic, and I feel some degree of hesitation posting it again (I'm not sure how well this one stands up to the test of time), but hey, maybe someone will like it so here it is for posterity!</p><p>Thanks to my beta readers: MistressRenet, Tiggy Malvern, Robofetus0, and Orangewinters.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Self-Inflicted

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for the yaoi_challenge comm on LJ. It was my first ever published fanfic, and I feel some degree of hesitation posting it again (I'm not sure how well this one stands up to the test of time), but hey, maybe someone will like it so here it is for posterity!
> 
> Thanks to my beta readers: MistressRenet, Tiggy Malvern, Robofetus0, and Orangewinters.

When I first met him, I thought about it. He wasn’t what I expected, but not bad, one of those situations where you worry about such a nice guy having such a shit reputation. It didn’t take long for that notion to be destroyed, along with a city and half the moon. He scared me then and I think I’m a little afraid of him now, the Stampede in him that could break all my secrets out of me and not even blink.   
  
Even through those two years when I didn’t know if, and definitely not when, I’d ever see him again, he stayed there in the back of my mind, a little half-formed thought that started with, _“When I see Vash again…”_ and ended with me fucking him softly into a mattress. I wanted to see him with his lips parted, like mine often were when I thought about him, I wanted him to tremble like I did.  
  
All of the enthusiasm for acting on it I had once evaporated pretty fast when I saw him again. Having him to myself most of the time is good enough and I don’t really feel like upsetting whatever balance we’ve worked out, especially when he still apologizes every time he brushes against me. I stopped bothering a long time ago.  
  
He always throws off that red coat as soon as he’s in his own room, walking around just in leathers. I don’t think he realizes how fucking provocative that thing is. I hate getting caught staring at someone, but when he notices me I hold his eyes and then look away.   
  
“Don’t you just bake in that stupid thing?”  
  
He looks self-conscious for a moment and shrugs. “It fits so well I guess I don’t notice it after a while.”  
  
He might not, but I can’t help it. It’s the way his back arches when he stretches and I want to slide my hand along the curve of it and feel him shiver. It’s the way he wears that damn leather outfit that shows everything, from the perfect curve of his ass to his hip bones and David lines, leaving nothing to the imagination. Or it wouldn’t, if mine wasn’t so active where he’s concerned.   
  
This was all fine and well when I had my own room to wander back to and spend the rest of the afternoon thinking about peeling off that second skin. I’d always take my time, imagine finding every place on his body that would make him squirm. Now that we’re sharing a room, I don’t have that luxury.   
  
Whenever he pays, he gets the double bed because it’s cheaper. I’ve never checked; whatever the extra price I pay for two beds is worth it. When we do share one, he always starts out sleeping on his back, and then rolls either to face me or away. The only nice thing is he falls asleep as soon as he hits the mattress and if I’m quiet enough he doesn’t notice. I always end up sleeping facing away from him, on my right shoulder that’s started to ache from sleeping so many nights in the same position.  
  
He’s got a good voice and in my mind he uses it well, sharp gasps and noises like the ones he makes when he dreams. I watched him once; they’re these soft sounds, murmurs while his face looks desperate like he’s clawing after that paradise he can only see or touch in his dreams anymore.   
  
I felt a little guilty getting hard seeing him like that, but at least I had the courtesy to face away from him and jerk off. The first aching touch made me gasp, but I was quiet, quieter than he was, but he didn’t know his dreaming was making my cock burn and my whole body quiver. I didn’t want to make a habit of this because I’m really bad at breaking them, but he’s the worst one of all. I hate rushing myself all of the time, but I know if I stay in the shower an extra ten minutes, he’d be the kind of asshole who’d notice.   
  
It’s funny how you start calculating exactly how long it’ll take. It reminds me of when I first started smoking and was determined to hide it; how I found a new use for all of the five-minute spaces I would’ve spent waiting. Like when Vash is downstairs ordering breakfast; that’ll take him less than ten minutes, but it’s enough for me. It’s easy to slip off when we’re out, so when I get back from the bathroom and light up a cigarette, he doesn’t even notice.   
  
“Your face’s flushed,” he slurs with this shit-faced grin.   
  
“So’s yours.”  
  
“So? Doesn’t mean I’m _drunk_. I’m _fine_.” He gestures in a large, sweeping motion that upsets a bottle and smashes it on the floor. “I wasn’t finished with that!”  
  
He looks like he’s about to get on the floor and start lapping up whatever’s left, so I grab his arm and push him towards the door. “I think you’ve had enough.”  
  
“No I haven’t! And I paid for that!”  
  
“ _I_ paid for it, and you’re just going to throw it up once we get back to the room.”  
  
He swallows loudly and when he speaks, his voice sounds high and pinched. “I don’t know if I’ll last that long.”  
  
We’re to the porch by the time he claps a hand over his mouth and bolts for the alleyway.   
  
“And people find you dangerous. How do you manage to fool the rest of the world so _well_?”   
  
“I’m so, so sorry,” he manages before puking again. By the time he’s finished, my cigarette’s out and he looks miserable. “Really, Wolfwood, I am so sorry.”  
  
“Don’t be sorry, you didn’t puke on me.” He did once, and turned into the most sorry, apologetic drunk I’ve ever seen. “Finished?”  
  
“You must think I’m so pathetic.” He pulls a face and spits, wiping his mouth.  
  
“Shut up.” It’s actually kind of cute. “You’ll feel a lot better tomorrow.”  
  
I grab his arm and wrap it around my neck, and he sags against me giggling. _Really_ cute.   
  
“I like you, you’re so nice to me.” His lips move against my throat as he speaks.   
  
“I’ll remind you of that next time you’re sober.”  
  
Now he’s smiling. “Next time you get sick, I get to take care of you.”   
  
“Is that a threat?”   
  
He raises his head off my shoulder and blinks with blurry, affronted eyes. “I’ve been told my bedside manner is very sweet.”  
  
“By who? Your victims?”  
  
“Go back to being nice.”  
  
“I’m only worried because it’ll likely be you who’ll _make_ me bedridden.”  
  
Once we get to our room, I lay him out on the bed and he’s gone in five minutes. I pull off his coat and it’s so hard not to just stand there, staring at him; Vash the Stampede out cold and still fucking beautiful. I don’t even bother to change clothes; I know what I want and it’s to feel his mouth against my throat again, moving.   
  
With him so close to me, I feel like I’m stealing when I come hard thinking about those lips.   
  
  
This morning he’s fresh out of the shower, half-dressed and fixing his hair. I’m shaving and the mirror in this bathroom is too small and he keeps distracting me so I keep cutting myself. It’s not like he notices, he’s so engrossed in his work. His skin’s still damp from the shower and the hot air hasn’t had a chance to suck off the moisture to replace it with sweat. I always imagine his skin tasting like salt, but right now he smells like soap and hair gel.   
  
He finishes doing his hair and frowns a little bit before adding the finishing touches. The little strands of hair that fall so artfully over his forehead, giving him that roguish, disheveled look? He does that on purpose. I wonder who the fuck he’s doing it _for_ , because he’s the kind of dick that complains about his image but spends all morning perfecting it. He glances at me through the mirror and I cut myself. I wince and he sighs, like watching me mutilate myself is an affront to his perfect face.   
  
“You’re not doing it right.”  
  
Snort. “And I suppose you’d know.”  
  
“ _I’m_ not the one bleeding.”  
  
He says that, but I’ve never seen him shave. He must do it in the shower, which is amazing considering what a shitty job I do and I’ve got a mirror. “Why do you think I only do it once a week?”  
  
“Didn’t you ever learn?”  
  
“Not really.”   
  
He smiles like he knows something I don’t. “I’ll show you!”   
  
“This takes long enough as it is, I don’t need a fucking beautician.” I scowl at him and rinse off the razor. His hand is around my wrist before I can take it out of the sink and just that touch is enough to make my heart jump and start slamming away in my chest.   
  
“Let me do it. It can’t be any worse than what you’re doing.”  
  
Wanna bet?  
  
“Fine,” I growl and turn to face him. This is even worse. My shoulders are hunched and tense and, asshole that he is, he notices.  
  
“Relax!” He smiles with flawless confidence. “I’m not going to hurt you. Well, not anymore than you already are.”  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
“Now, now, who’s got the razor?” His hand tips my chin back as he surveys the territory. “You’ve got really nice cheekbones.”  
  
“Uh. Thanks.” He can probably see my pulse pounding in my throat. He probably thinks I’m worried about what he _might_ do, not hoping for what he _could_ do.  
  
“I mean it, your whole face is nicely angular. It’s probably why you have so much trouble shaving.”  
  
His face is like that too, except softer somehow. It doesn’t look sharp, like mine, it doesn’t show the age I see in mine, worse every time I look in the mirror. He pats the countertop and I lean back and sit up. We’re still at the same height, but now my ass is wet from sitting in the puddle I was making when I was shaving before. I glare at him but he doesn’t seem to notice.  
  
“Ready?” He gives me one of those sunny smiles like this is a grand adventure.   
  
I already had one half of my face done, so he starts on the left side and works towards my mouth. I’m afraid I’m breathing too loud and he’ll hear it; I’m afraid he’ll notice my lips tremble when his fingers brush past them. He’s looking at what he’s doing, but I can’t see anything else, he’s so close. God, Vash, you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.  
  
His brow is furrowed in concentration and he keeps getting closer until he bumps my legs with his own. He looks annoyed. “Move, will you? I need to do your neck.”  
  
Move, where the hell to? He looks _more_ annoyed and pushes my legs apart so he can stand between them. Holy _shit_. I’d probably be choking if he didn’t raise my head up and slide the razor up my throat and over my chin. It scrapes over my Adam’s apple and I swallow hard, imagining it’s his teeth. I need a cigarette, badly.   
  
When he lets my head back down, my breathing must sound relieved because he smiles. Again. “Were you really that worried?”  
  
With him standing between my legs, I’m fucking petrified.   
  
I glare at him. “Hurry up, I want a cigarette.”  
  
“That’s why you cut yourself, you’re always rushing these things.”  
  
He doesn’t realize the immediacy of the situation. I need to take my shower and get rid of this boner so I can pull myself together. I start drumming my feet against the sink cupboard to distract myself. _Thump. Thump. Thump._ His eyes narrow with every beat.   
  
“Will you _stop_ that?” He grabs my thigh to stop me and I jump, and he cuts my upper lip. I’m bleeding but he’s the one that looks hurt. “Sorry,” he hisses.  
  
“Don’t worry about it, I’d probably do it myself anyway. Just put some tissue on it.”  
  
He doesn’t do that, he puts his fucking lips on it. His tongue darts out to touch the small cut with a little sting. “Like that?”  
  
“Yeah,” I say, my mouth dry. “Just like that.”  
  
 _Do it again._  
  
He’s got the same idea so we meet with a harsh clash of teeth. My mouth is open and he’s tasting me with these long, obscene strokes. He doesn’t kiss like I thought he would, but he’s really good at whatever he’s doing. My hand slides into his still-damp hair and pulls him in closer. He isn’t going anywhere, but I want to be sure of it.  
  
He backs off far enough that I can breathe and nip his chin before he kisses me again. His face is the same baby-soft skin as the rest of his body and he still tastes like soap. His mouth is like white heat, a blast of hot wind in the desert right before a storm that’ll rip the place apart.   
  
My hand travels down his spine, past bolts and scars to the little dimples in the small of his back. Vash murmurs into my mouth, some of those sweet sounds like the ones he makes when he’s sleeping. The thought that he was dreaming about fucking when he made those noises hits me like a bullet.   
  
I slide one hand over his ass and pull him in close enough that I can feel him hard against me through those leather pants. My fingers curl around his narrow hips, tracing the sharp bones that I’ve been longing to touch ever since I first saw them. Christ, you’d think he wouldn’t be built like this with the way he eats.  
  
He’s breathing with these ragged gasps that untie me more than anything he’s done yet. “I want you, you know.”  
  
I do _now_ , but it’s sure nice to hear him say it.   
  
“Then _fuck_ me,” I growl, harsh and desperate, anything so he doesn’t stop. “What do you want, a written invitation?”  
  
“You’re rushing again.” He grins. His hand has been burning a hole into my thigh ever since he put it there and it slides up so slowly that it makes my whole body quiver like a tuning fork. His hand is in my pants, tracing over my cock with touches that’re far too light. Then he’s moving again, hands sliding up my chest and brushing over a nipple, making me squirm.   
  
“Tease!” I grab his hand before he can do it again. He’s smiling so slyly that I want to break it.  
  
“Not fair calling me a tease when you’re putting on a show every night.”  
  
I glare at him. “You were sleeping.”  
  
“Right, no way I’m falling asleep when I know what you’ll be doing.” He pulls his hand away and kisses me; his tongue is soft and wet in my suddenly dry mouth. “You’re kinda predictable.”  
  
“So what, you sleep with your hard-ons?” It comes out as a growl and he laughs at me.   
  
“And you always fall asleep right after you come. See, predictable.”  
  
God damn it. He’s right.  
  
His hands are everywhere except where I _really_ want them to be, and my cock is starting to ache. “If you don’t do anything about this, I’m going to finish it myself,” I hiss.  
  
“Don’t let me stop you,” he says, kissing my ear and using his teeth, and my hand is on my cock so fast. He sighs, watching me like it’s been what he’s been waiting for this entire time. I’m afraid I sound desperate and I’m afraid I look helpless.  
  
“You always sound so _good_ when I can listen,” he says, his mouth brushing against mine as he speaks. _Tease_. “I couldn’t watch you and I _wanted_ to but I knew you’d stop if I opened my eyes.”  
  
His hand closes over mine, following my movements. My hips tremble against his and I never thought I was this easy to take apart, but I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to fuck someone this badly before. I tell him that or at least I try to, murmuring and gasping and this is so much better than doing it alone.   
  
He hasn’t touched himself yet so I try to help, but those leather pants are complicated with only one hand, especially if it’s shaking. He brushes me away and does it himself, watching me the entire time. I was close to begin with, but seeing him stroke himself brings me to the edge.  
  
When this first started, I wanted it to be me inside of him, I wanted to see his mouth kiss-bruised and his face flushed and know that I was the one doing it. I wanted to watch his body shiver when I touched him and hear the sounds he made. Somewhere along the line I started wondering about how fucking good it would be to have him inside me and feel his mouth on mine, just like this. I’m whispering as much of it as I can to Vash, and he _keeps_ making those sounds, the ones I wanted to fuck out of him.   
  
His hand tightens around mine and that’s enough to make me come harder than I have on my own. He hasn’t stopped, and he looks fucking beautiful with his lips half-parted and his thumb running over the head of his cock. I tell him that, too, and he almost smiles. His face is flushed and hot when I touch it to kiss him, feeling him tense and shudder and then release.   
  
I lean back against the mirror and he follows me, his head resting heavy on my shoulder. I’m still breathing hard and now I _really_ want a cigarette. Too bad I don’t feel like moving, but neither does Vash. I start playing with his hair and he actually purrs. I was so concerned with what would be happening when I was fucking him that I never really thought about the afterwards, but this is surprisingly nice.   
  
“Take a shower with me,” I murmur.   
  
He smiles against my shoulder. “I already took one.”  
  
“So?” I yawn. This is so _nice_ that it’s making me sleepy. “Now you’re dirty again.”  
  
I kiss him, soft and light and I could stay here all morning if there wasn’t a perfectly good bed in the other room. “Mmm. Give me a minute,” he says.  
  
He’s back faster than that and throws my cigarettes and lighter to me. I end up staring stupidly at them for a moment. “Thanks.”  
  
“See? Predictable.” He’s grinning again like he knows everything.   
  
I’m starting to not have such a problem with that.


End file.
